


Sick

by ticktockclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-06 14:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ticktockclockwork/pseuds/ticktockclockwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Original post + chapter graphic: <a href="http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/24482107965/the-trunk-is-loaded-sir-thank-you">Click here</a></p>
        </blockquote>





	1. The Scent

The wall beneath his fingers was cool and damp and stuck to his skin, grabbing, holding trying to give life to the one who took it. As he brought his fingers to his lips he could taste filth and sex and lust and blood and death and it was delicious. He put it there. It was intoxicating. He put it there. It was mouthwatering. He put it there.

His head rolled back as he dragged his fingers down over his lips, teeth baring, red with iron and stolen life. His tongue was wet and it darted out, tasting, devouring the last that clung to his hand. Fingers pushed past teeth and pressed down his tongue as his back fell to the wall, knees breaking, legs bending. He slid down the wall, hips shifting, restless, wanting and more.

His eyes were closed as he breathed in the scent of the woman now slain at his side. She was wonderful, tasting of apples and blind faith and innocence. It was there, hidden beneath the folds of her blouse and heaving breasts, snaking through her whimpers and pleas and screams. Slim like thread and caught in her throat, choking and then gone as she was shoved against the wall and slaughtered like the cow she was. So many warning signs ignored, so many twists in her gut telling her please, mistress, please turn back. Go back to bed and live, just one more night.

But stupid woman she was, followed folly against instinct and she was now decorating that dreadful rug with flurries of crimson lost and wasted. Had he been a desperate beast, and he at one time had been, he’d have licked that off the very ground, desperate for the rush, the fill, the calm satiation that would no doubt follow. Desperate he might be, a beast he was not and rather than crawling on all fours, he was choosing the sweet temperance of taste and smell. She was delicious for as stupid as she was and if he cared he might have taken more care when tearing her throat out.

Unfortunately for her, Sherlock Holmes had long since lost his conscious under the lurid moonlight and seductive cat-calls of summer. A deep groan ripped from his throat as a slice of metal hit his tongue and his knees gave out completely, hips thrusting forward, head tipping back, fighting the wall. His body was pulled tight like a band, so lost in the sensations of stealing life and devouring it. The drug of the humans, so precious and free and common and all his.

“You’re disgusting.”

He should have guessed. Only his sire could have snuck up on him. “You are just jealous that you are fat and old and no woman would want to bed you.” He hissed, but closed his legs and opened his eyes. Wet fingers pulled from his lips and dropped to the sticky mess on the carpet, playing, swirling like milk in coffee. “Have you come to ruin my dinner again with unappetizing personality.”

“Don’t be a prat, Sherlock. And stop playing with your leftovers.” Mycroft curled his lip up at Sherlock though the other merely rolled his eyes and stood with a grace he shouldn’t have given how long and awkward his limbs were. Mycroft stepped back to give Sherlock some room, sighing heavily with disapproval and condemnation.

“Save your patronizing breaths for someone who cares.” Sherlock said, sucking the blood off the tips of his fingers. He walked up to the girl and pushed her shoulder with his boot, rolling her to her back and looking down to her ashen face. “If I hadn’t known better, I would have guessed she were a common whore. Apparently she’s a librarian.” He sniffed and then pressed her face away with his foot, leaving dirt and mud and blood to stain her cheek. “She tasted of dust and decaying paper.”

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

A press down and with a sickening crunch, the carpet was now wearing brain matter. Mycroft raised his hackles again and looked away from the mess to his brother who seemed simultaneously disgusted and uninterested. “What do you want, brother?” He turned blue-green eyes to the other, watching as Mycroft pulled out a file and handed it over.

 

“We have collected a new specimen.”

Sherlock snatched the file over and then without opening, tossed it atop the dead woman’s body. “Uninterested. Anything else?” He was unprepared for Mycroft backhanding him, though he should have known his childishness would not go unpunished.

“Pick up the file and read it Sherlock.” Mycroft growled, not an inch away from Sherlock’s faces, teeth clenched tight. “I am not here to humor your disdainful and offensive attitude. I allow you to play house with your boy toys and pretty dolls but we had a deal. When I call, you come. Remember?” Sherlock wanted to retort, wanted to brandish his silver tongue like a champion’s sword, but Mycroft was his Sire and even he couldn’t best that power.

Licking his canine and letting a quick chuff out of his nose he turned and retrieved the file, opening it as if he were doing Mycroft a great service. While Mycroft composed himself again, Sherlock stepped over the body and moved to his chair, sinking down and crossing one knee over the other.

“John Watson. He was found hiding in the slums of Catalonia.”

“Fascinating.” Sherlock replied in a deadpanned voice, flipping papers but not reading.

“He’s a doctor. He studies our kind.”

“Is that so?”

“Sherlock, he can help you.”

“I don’t need help, Mycroft. Especially not from a human.”

“He’s not human.”

Sherlock looked up, angry and with his patience running out. Mycroft seemed pleased to have caught him off guard and that only served to piss him off more. “Excuse me?”

“He isn’t human. He’s a shadow-jumper.”

“An elemental.”

“Yes, not terribly powerful but yes, an elemental.”

“None of our kind has seen one for… centuries.”

“No. I don’t believe they appreciated us, well, you know.”

“Hunting them down like dogs for their blood?”

Mycroft’s eyes closed and he smiled. “Mm. Yes. They are ever so delicious. But, this one is not for feasting. He has been hiding amongst the humans, hiding from us all, masking his scent with the dulling blend of human and city and poverty. He’s done well for as long as he has but we have him now. We’ll be bringing him in within the week.

“Not fast enough.”

“Excuse me?”

“You won’t be fast enough.”

“We already have men ou-“

“Shut up now. I don’t need you anymore. Go away. I will collect him tonight.”

“Sherlock, we have been tracking him for years. How can you poss-“

“I said shut up and go away!” He snarled, snatching up a book off the table and tossing it at Mycroft. Such disrespect usually begot severe punishment but Mycroft just rolled his eyes. With a murmur that sounded distinctly of “such a child” he turned and left. Sherlock watched the closed door for a long time before picking John’s file back up and sauntering to his bedroom, kicking the door shut as he read.

He would have this John Watson before the day was out. Poor soul didn’t know what was coming.


	2. The Hunt

“The trunk is loaded, sir.”   
  
“Thank you.”   
  
Sherlock was not paying much mind to the pretty young woman (who wasn’t young at all mind you) that was standing at his side with a very disapproving look on her face. She could get away with it, unfortunately. Sherlock detested her all the more for it.  
  
“You are being incredibly moronic, you understand that sir, correct?”  
  
“Anthea, you sit on my last nerve without much effort as it is. Do not make that position any more precarious.”   
  
“I would adore to see you try anything, darling. We both know you won’t get far.” She tilted her head as he growled at her. “Now, back to your idiocy. He isn’t a simple capture. He isn’t particularly unique, of course. He just happens to be clever. I don’t understand why you just won’t allow Mycroft to go and retrieve him.”  
  
“Because he’s an imbecile and will muck it all up.”  
  
“You underestimate your sire. That’s dangerous.”  
  
“You overestimate him. Now tell me which is worse.”   
  
He reached over her clip board without breaking her stare and snatched the keys to the car from her. “I’ll be back in the morning.” Slipping into the driver’s side of the car, he started the nearly silent engine and left the women out front the manor. He didn’t have time to waste sitting around and discussing a job he was not going to give up just because they believed him to be rash and lacking forethought.   
  
One of those was true but it wasn’t going to stop him.  
  
Two and a half hours later Sherlock had stopped and unloaded the car. He made quick work of the contents of the trunk and within the hour, the abandoned little cottage on the outskirts of town looked just as demur and unalarming as it had when he’d first arrived. The car was stowed a safe though accessible distance away and Sherlock was ready to hunt.   
  
Stepping outside, he assessed his surroundings. Nothing was particularly special about this place. The foundation was weak and withering, the grass (if you could call it that) was making a valiant effort of growing through what cobblestones remained. The trees were overgrown with wild brambles and berry bushes and auto parts littered the outer line of the yard like discarded lawn ornaments. The porch creaked at the slightest effort and the majority of the windows could no longer be called that as the glass had all been busted out. It had been left for dead years ago and all but forgotten by the townsfolk of this tiny sleeping town.  
  
Smelling the air he caught the slight scent of wet and sour mulch and rain on the horizon. He picked up the old oil mill not a mile down the road and the house of dogs two streets over. He could smell the dirt and dust along the drive and the tempered and acrid smell of the mushrooms growing in a fairy ring around the dead tree across the yard. Beyond that he could smell the moonlight peeking through the clouds and the drifting hush that fell over the entire area as he settled into his hunting grounds. He could feel the shift in the night, the quiet pull back of life from his dead form. It shied away from him, as it should, wise to keep its distance.  
  
He’d shed his coat back at the car along with his shoes and socks. He now just stood barefoot, wearing only his slacks and his shirt, the wrists unbuttoned and hanging loose by his knuckles. He shifted his toes in the damp earth, feeling the sediment and rocks, the broken glass bits and crawling worms. He felt the life hiding there too.   
  
All this he memorized.   
  
With one last, large, breath of air his body flicked and he shoved off his foot, sprinting immediately and running too fast for human eyes to capture. Vampire trick. Everyone loved it. The wind was wild and cold as it blew over his face and through his hair and he ran, pushing himself to get to the place where his prey was hiding.   
  
It was a small apartment, though that was a generous term. It was more like a shack, with two rooms. One was the bedroom-bath combination and the other was everything else. He lived on a meager salary though Sherlock had been informed he was smart enough to earn good money with the research he’d done. Personal, it had been explained. All the research was for personal curiosity. What a waste.   
  
He was clever enough to tuck himself away between an aging polish couple and a family of stowaways from Russia. The smells were constant and pungent, enough to mask even the smell of a small time elemental. Light and shadow jumpers were common, thought crafty bastards to catch. Wind and Waters were said to be plentiful but hardly revealed themselves to anyone other than their kin or other elementals. Fire and Earth were rarer but more likely to show their faces. Spirit elementals were rarest of all. Only three had ever been seen in recorded history. And that was still only hearsay. Sherlock wasn’t sure he believed it.  
  
But John was a shadow jumper and one who clearly wished to assimilate himself into human society. It wasn’t common for elementals to do this because it was simply too hard for them to pass off as human. So akin to their elements as they were, they were known to spontaneously… shift. It was a tedious process of covering up and there were ministries for it that Sherlock knew even less about. Plus, add in the fact that The Great Hunt was still fresh in many elementals minds wherein an insurgent of vampires hunted down any and all elementals for their intoxicatingly sweet blood… yeah, it was rare for them to show their faces. And yet here one was, nestled in amongst a variety of humans, pretending to be one and apparently succeeding. It was fascinating. He might be common, but John was not boring.   
  
One mile away and he could smell the telltale scent of human and heavy Eastern European cooking. As predicted, he smelled no elemental. Very clever indeed. But not clever enough. His feet hit the ground soundlessly as he ran, cutting through the night silent but quick, coming up to the building in no time at all. It was a wonder no one had tried to get him before. Or if they had… it was a wonder no one had succeeded. Mycroft and his little legion couldn’t be the only ones tracking this guy. If he had sparked Mycroft’s interest, there were others sure to follow.  
  
Sherlock wasted no time admiring the simplicity of this disguise and instead made his way up the rickety fire escape that climbed the side of the building like industrial ivy. He could smell the rust as his hands slid around the bars and it made him hungry. Which made him faster. Before long he was at John’s window, feet dirty and disgusting on the sill, his hands gripping the edge like a spider watching his web.   
  
The lights were dimmed within, not surprising given John’s nature, but there was activity in that flat. The window Sherlock was at was in the bedroom and he could hear John in the kitchen. There was the tick-tack of a glass being stirred and the hiss of a burner being turned on. One would guess tea, but Sherlock knew better. The dried though earthy aroma of tea was missing. He wasn’t making tea. He was doing an experiment. Good, he’d be distracted. Shifting his weight to support himself on the balls of his feet, he slid his hand under the latch on the window. It was dirty with neglect but unlocked and so Sherlock gave it a sharp tug to open it.   
  
A keen squeal came from the window frame, unused to any sort of activity. It hadn’t been opened in awhile. Sherlock had stopped though, dead still and watching the door like a dog, waiting for John to come and investigate the noise. But he was either unaware or far too comfortable here because after a few minutes, the room remained as quiet and empty as it had been. Licking his lips Sherlock tried the window again and it gave way this time with minimal effort and sound, sliding up enough for him to slink under.  
  
With his feet still perched on the sill, Sherlock crawled through, hands balancing as he pulled the rest of his long body under. He did a careful twist and lowered his legs down with silent ease before returning to the window to shut it. No need to alert his prey with a silly thing like a suspiciously open window. It shut with ease and he left it like that, knowing he wouldn’t be exiting this building the same way he’d come in. Moving to the door he was pleased to see the slice of light shining into the bedroom, indicating the door was ajar. One less things to worry about.   
  
John was humming under his breath in the other room and Sherlock crept to the door to peek through, observing his target for himself now. John was rather common looking, stocky in build and short in height with a modernly handsome face. He would not be Sherlock’s first pick, that was for sure. But he was nice enough to look at. The slight dusting of darkness that seemed to waft off of him was intriguing though and if Sherlock didn’t have a previous goal already in mind, he would want to investigate that further. Another time, another place. Right now he had to capture the man he was watching before he could learn him.  
  
Now was the turning point in his plan. Up until this moment, everything was very one-directional. Leave point A and arrive at point B, preferably undetected. Get a look at your target without getting made yourself. These were straightforward, these he had done. The rest was left to chance. He had an end goal but how he got there would be determined on a moment to moment basis. It would depend on what John chose to do and what he could get John to do. Both were very unpredictable things. But it all started here. And this was his first move.  
  
Placing his hand flat on the door he pushed it, allowing it to creak loudly as it struggled to swing open into the living room. He had John’s attention immediately, though he himself didn’t make his presence known. He hung back, allowing the door to set the entire mood, to set up the hunt. John was on alert, having dropped (literally) what he was doing to turn and stare at the door. It was open, showing only darkness in John’s room but John knew that darkness better than anyone else and he knew there was an intruder.   
  
Move two.  
  
Sherlock stepped into the light of the doorway, his head tipped, knees bent, clearly ready for the chase both men knew was to come. His eyes were shadowed and his smile slight, tongue running over his bottom lip as he got his first real smell of John, finally heard the drum beat pounding of his heart. Sherlock was hungry despite his meal earlier and nothing, _nothing_ , had ever looked as appetizing as John did right now.  
  
But just as quick as John was there he was gone.  
  
Move three.   
  
Sherlock was off, knowing John couldn’t stay in shadow form forever and calculating his next materialization point. Living room. By the side table lamp. And sure enough John reappeared, the dusty shadows still lifting off him, like fog on a still lake’s surface. He wasn’t graceful by any means, immediately scrambling to hit another shadow but Sherlock was faster, cutting him off and pushing him back towards the little window in his kitchen. He lunged and snapped his teeth at John, the man falling back then leaping for the cut of shadow atop the counters, disappearing again.  
  
Perfect.  
  
Sherlock made quick work of the window this time, smashing through and leaping out, taking out the piss-poor security bars that were protecting the window from the outside. He rolled and hit the ground, tripping and staggering till her got to his feet and slid to a halt. His shirt and shoulder had taken the brunt of the windows backlash, ripped fabric revealing blood from wounds now healed. But Sherlock paid it no mind, his mind racing, muscles begging, urging him to chase, run chase. But where was his target? There were only so many places John could come back.  
  
Streetlight, one walk over. Gotcha. Sherlock saw John the moment he took form and was off, racing for the man, snapping wicked teeth, nipping and lunging, pushing the man to run, catching him off guard and keeping his thoughts from being composed. He wanted him panicked. He wanted him scared. If not for the chase then for the delicious sound of the man’s blood, pounding like a river rushing, pushing to his brain, his heart, his lungs. John was out of breath, soft from lazy human living and unaccustomed to the agility and stamina needed for this kind of a chase. Good.   
  
John was running on foot this time, cleverly saving his energy for his next jump. If he did too many, he couldn’t make them count and with his ill practice, he had little to spare. Sherlock was faster, quicker, blood-thirsty. But he couldn’t shadowmeld and so long as John had that, he had a heads-up on his pursuer.   
  
And so through the city they went, Sherlock guiding, trapping and pushing John where he wanted him. He could tell his prey was getting tired, was exhausted already trying to outrun someone determined to slaughter him and it was only by a sheer for of will to live that he continued running, continued jumping. He had to get out of the town. His moves were too predictable here, places too obvious. He needed someplace unfamiliar, someplace with little light, and more shadows, some place he could lose his would-be killer.  
  
With one last push he was out of the town and running through the outskirts, interspersing the heavy sprinting with jumps between tree shadows and run down cars. It was killing him to do all this, to push himself with no grace, no preparation. He’d been doing so well. He’d hidden for so long he’d thought he was safe. But this thinking would be his death, he knew that now. He’d never been safe. They’d just been waiting.  
  
When he saw the house, he almost fell with relief. Houses were perfect. Houses were gold. Especially abandoned wrecks such as this, wrought with old attics and broken floorboards, it was a shadow jumpers paradise when in need for a place to hide. Shadows out in the open like this, out in fields were not consistent enough. He couldn’t tip-toe through them. But a house was perfect.   
  
A glance over his shoulder told him his pursuer was not slowing down and so with a desperate drag in of air he dove for the door, dematerializing the moment he touched the shadow. He was safe. He was safe here, safe in this home. Curling up on his side and immersing himself in the shadows, he waited, catching his breath in a world his hunter could not find.  
  
Sherlock jerked to a stop when John disappeared, his feet now caked in mud and bloody from running over pavement and gravel. He was smiling though, grinning a razors grin as he watched the house, body poised and ready.   
  
Move four.  
  
Easing down the desire to spring and calming the wild whispers in his mind, he approached the house. John was in there somewhere now. Too tired to run back out into the open darkness. But still too desperate to give up. He wasn’t practiced enough to live in the shadows permanently, far too human to accomplish that inhuman goal. Which was a shame as it would be the only thing to save his life right now. One foot stepped up onto the front porch and then another, leaving bloody footprints as he made his way inside. “I know you’re in here, little shadow monster. You might as well come out… no need to hide from me…” His voice was like silk, deep and rich and enticing and oh so wrong that it made John’s body shudder hard. He was tired, too tired to run anymore but not tired enough to hide. He was just hoping Sherlock was stupid enough to lose interest or think he’d run off again, leaving him to recover in peace.   
  
Sherlock knew how to deal with shadow jumpers, knew only from books mind you, but knew nonetheless. You had to watch your peripherals, watch the minute shift in shadows as they moved amongst them. It’s the feeling you get when you’re alone, the feeling of being watched, followed when there is nothing behind you but darkness. They were the shift in grey, the movement in your closet, the quiet drag under your bed. They gave children nightmares and cemeteries reputations. They were mostly harmless but were often tagged as the most frightening purely for their ability to move without making a sound, move in the darkness when no one else could.  
  
Sherlock walked through the kitchen and turned his back but felt something creep out of the room behind him. He turned on the ball of his foot, smiling and guiding John, following, stalking him through the pitch black of the house. A small sitting room was littered with broken old furniture and discarded porcelain angels. Old painters tarps covered a buffet and bureau. John slipped through the side door, to Sherlock’s right.   
  
He followed.  
  
Through the hall of crooked, faded paintings and through the dining room, ransacked and broken, similar to the others. Sherlock was as silent as John but always aware, always following. Until they got to the living room, the final room. The trap.  
  
Sherlock saw the shift, over by an old couch, seats ripped open and sides torn. Just under one of the legs, as if a cat had walked, into the middle towards a small coffee table. John was heading for the side door, hoping to get to the attic, hoping to find a true place to hide. But this would not be his victory, and as he shifted again, half between shadow and just the beginning of human, Sherlock hit the switch on the wall and light erupted in the room.  
  
Floodlights came immediately to life and soaked the entire room with white artificial light, so strong even Sherlock’s had to cover his eyes. Not an ounce of that room was touched by shadow and with that came an agonizing roar of pain as John was forcibly ripped out of his shadows, his protection, completely against his will. It was like the burn of boiling water, quick and unforgiving, as if the light had flayed him the moment it touched him. He fell to his knees, screaming as he covered his head, his ears, his eyes, and it was then that Sherlock, with one last predatory grin, launched at his prey.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post + chapter graphic: [Click here](http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/24482107965/the-trunk-is-loaded-sir-thank-you)


	3. The Trap

The scream of an elemental, Sherlock had found, was no different than that of any other normal human out there. It was keen at first, then desperation set in and before long it was acceptance. All so quick, just one burst of breath from the chest to go from “Oh god oh god I’m dying to oh god oh god, I’m not going to live”. Sherlock was savoring it, however miniscule and momentary this bit of time was, because he knew, could feel, could smell his clout of a brother coming and he would no doubt he stealing his little rabbit away.

John was a shaking mess under him as Sherlock's teeth sank over and over into his soft sweet neck. Sherlock really should have had more control and composure given the kind of family he came from but the myths about elemental blood were not wrong and the moment that sanguine liquid slid over his tongue he’d been lost. It wasn't special to him, it wasn’t this unique perfect blood made just to satisfy your palette but it was fantastic and he was sure he could easily get addicted to this creature. But he could get addicted to all creatures like John if they tasted this good.

He was fighting, bless his soul, even if he had little strength left in him. Hands grabbed for Sherlock’s eyes and nose, any soft spot that would cause immediate pain. Even a momentary release from his hold could prove to be lifesaving but Sherlock was the pit and he had his kill by the throat. He wasn’t about to let John go. But. His mind was telling him, but if he didn’t stop he would kill John and right now he didn’t want that. He needed to keep him because the likelihood of finding another elemental, even though Sherlock was now incredibly interested in them, was slim and if he had one now he didn’t think it wise to kill it before he had his fun.

Unfortunately, while in his little mind palace, John had grabbed an old piece of wood and was swinging it around hard, aiming for Sherlock’s temple. It had long been established that the stake to the chest was a grossly exaggerated myth and that vampire hunters so long ago only stabbed Vampires in the heart so that they could pin them to the ground. It was then that they proceeded to cut off their heads and that had definitely proved effective. A damaged brain in any creature was a sure way to, if not kill them, surely debilitate them. Enough to garner an escape. And that was exactly what John was trying to do, aiming for his soft temple, hoping to hit brain.

Sherlock caught on at just the last second and yanked off his throat enough to turn his head just so, so that when the piece of wood hit his face it splintered and tore open the flesh at his brow and forehead but missed the vulnerable pressure point at his temple. He roared as red covered his vision and yanked off completely to try and clear his eyes, able to feel John kick him off and try and scramble to get up. If he got to the shadows now, Sherlock knew that was it. He was in a frenzy and there was no way he’d be able to calm down enough to be able to hunt this cunning creature.

John was weak and there was too much blood loss to get far. He’d managed to get upright and on his feet, but his world spun and he tilted and stumbled, farther away from the doorway. Hands pressed to his throat as in one last desperate effort, he tried to throw himself to the doorway. It was all for not as something suddenly slammed into him and crushed him to a wall, eliciting another agonizing cry as ribs broke from vampire mishandling.

“Don’t be moronic, John Watson.” Sherlock hissed in his ear as he licked the sticky blood off John’s shoulder and behind his jaw. He had the other man pinned against the crumbling drywall, his arm wrenched back behind his back and feet off the ground. Vampire strength was his biggest weapon now and so long as he could control himself in time for Mycroft to get here then he was sure they’d get away, prize in hand.

John turned his head, trying to shake Sherlock off but he really was just a fly twisting more in the spiders web because the more he struggled the more pressure Sherlock put on him and each cry of pain was savored, like sugar on his tongue. This was his, John was his, he had caught him finders keepers mother fuckers. There was no way he was letting him go now and Mycroft might come in to contain him and make sure he didn’t bleed to death but there was no way he was passing him off to some undisclosed government official that would test on him and waste his blood.

About the same time Sherlock came to this conclusion, a metal tether looped around his neck, tightened and yanked him off. His snarl was cut off as his airway was pinched closed and as he was dragged away from the wall, John slumped down in a hard pile on the floor, momentarily dazed and too weak to try and run anymore. Two men came up and each grabbed one of Sherlock’s arms to pull him away and pin him down while a third came up to grab his hair and then put his knee between his shoulders. The tether was removed and his face turned so that when Mycroft crouched down, they could talk face to face.

“You know, Sherlock, if you didn’t act like a rabid beast, I wouldn’t have to treat you as such.”

Sherlock snapped his teeth at him and that earned him a slam of his head down as Mycroft stood back up and tentatively approached John. “Hello Dr. Watson. I apologize for this appalling treatment. My name is Mycroft Holmes and we’re here to help.”

John lifted his head and if distrust had a face, it would be his. He looked ready to bite, even though his face was ashy white and his hands and clothes were soaked red. He wasn’t going to concede just because he had lost. He was a fighter, he was very good at taking care of himself and making sure people like Sherlock or Mycroft didn’t find him and just because he’d been caught now, he knew this wasn’t the end.

It took three hours, sixteen bandages and a UV containment box before John was secure and en route to his containment locale. Sherlock had been sedated to a point of calm and was following in a vehicle behind John's. He was a mess, blood staining his lips and face and chin and neck and his clothes were soaked through much like John’s. He was normally more put together, normally more artistic with his kills but the fact that he couldn’t hold himself back with John really spoke volumes for their relationship in the future.

“He’s mine, I want him. I found him.” He was mumbling, trying to make a point to a man who was only barely paying attention to him.

“Yes, you seemed to make that quite clear when you tore open his throat.” Mycroft mused as he watched the city pass by their windows.

“I found him, faster than you.”

“Yes, yes. Hush up now.”

The fact that Mycroft wasn’t taking him seriously struck a chord within him and he went to lash out but either Mycroft was faster than normal or those sedative were really strong because before he was even out of his seat, Mycroft was atop him, hand pressing one side of his face down against the seat back while the other had him by the hair.

“Now listen here, child. I created you, I turned you and you have shown me nothing but contempt and lackluster respect. I let you handle this because I had faith in your tracking abilities but you nearly cost us the target in your selfish and self-satisfying pursuits. This mess will be held over me longer than you are likely to even exist so you. Will. Do. Well. To mind me and settle down before I put you under and house you in a detox facility. My patience has run out for you right now and I have more important and more interesting things to deal with than you, Sherlock. Is that understood?”

Sherlock was shaking from the power radiating off his sire and he understood, though he wasn’t too pleased. He did push his limits and sometimes he went too far. Today was one of those days. He nodded and slowly Mycroft pulled away, readjusting his suit with a look of disgust on his face only brought about by having to break composure. “Now, we are only a few miles away. We need to get him into our medical facilities and stitch him up. You both need a good bath and then maybe, maybe, if you mind I’ll let you go see him.”

When they arrived at the facility, it didn’t take much to get Sherlock into the cleaning rooms, changed and washed down then back down a few levels to the infirmary floor. John had been under the Doctors watch for a good amount of time now, lights constantly bright, no amount of shadows allowed. He might be weak but they weren’t going to run the risk of allowing him to escape. He was stitched up and given all the necessary antibiotics and IVs to make sure he wouldn’t be out of commission too long. He wasn’t allowed to rest yet, though. Not completely. First, Mycroft wanted to talk to him.

Standing behind a hidden panel in the wall designed to see into the interrogation room, Sherlock watched as Mycroft sat before John. The elemental was dressed in a white cotton gown that really did wonders bringing out the rings around his eyes and the slight pink tinge still hanging to his skin after his brutal attack. Sherlock really should feel guilty. He really should. But he didn’t. Instead he was more interested in how John would act now.

“Hello John. My name is Mycroft Holmes. Are you feeling better?”

“This is illegal. The hunting of elementals was banned ages ago when you nearly wiped us out.” John said calmly though his face broke with some of his anger.

“Yes, I know the laws.”

“And you’ve kidnapped me which is also illegal. You’re holding me here against my will.”

“Ah, now see that is a human law. I can go call the authorities though if you’d like to explain what you and I are and see how well that goes over.” Mycroft said genially, crossing one leg over the other and watching John. John pursed his lips and looked away though. “That’s what I thought. Now, let me make this clear. We had no intention of assaulting you. Nor were we expecting one of our own to be so provoked into an attack as he was. We were going to collect you in a more... respectable manner. Sherlock just got to you first.” In his defense, Mycroft did sound unhappy and a bit repentant.

“Well we both know how well that went, huh?” He made a motion to the gauze around his neck and Mycroft licked his bottom lip at the sight.

“Yes. I do apologize for that. I assure you it won’t be happening again.”

“Sure. Of course. An elemental in a building full of vamps, oh yeah, it won’t be happening again.”

Sherlock shifted at the idea, hidden away and pleased to be so given how agitated just the thought of someone else feeding from John was. He was a possessive vampire normally but rarely over meals. Once he’d had his fill then he usually let it go to the next hungry person. But John was his hunt and his capture and the idea of anyone else finding out just how delicious his blood was… well that was unacceptable. It seemed, though, that Mycroft could sense his unease and tipped his face back as a warning.

“I know he’s back there.”

John’s words brought both Mycroft and Sherlock’s attention back forward and Mycroft raised a brow in question.

“I know that vampire, Sherlock was it? I know he’s back there. I might not be able to get to them, but I can still feel the shadows and he’s right…” John looked past Mycroft, scanning the wall before ‘meeting’ Sherlock’s gaze dead on. “There.”

“…. Impressive.” Mycroft admitted turning back to look at the window. “But your abilities, as interesting as they must be, are not why we brought you in. Not your genetic abilities, at least. I hear you are well educated in the science of vampiric hematology. I am interested in what you know.”

It was John’s turn to pay attention now and he frowned. “Maybe.” He licked his lips. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.” Mycroft said simply. “I want to see your research, what you are working on, what you have concluded. And why…” He looked down to a file on the table, raising his brows. “You were studying a blood born pathogen that would target and eradicate all vampiric blood types.” Without moving his face he looked up to John. “This is very interesting to me.”

John paled and swallowed, having assumed no one knew about that. It was his Hail Mary play, his out in case any vampire tried to attack him. He hadn’t perfected anything but he’d been researching it in private. How Mycroft and god knows who else found out about it was beyond him but it certainly wasn’t good.

“Don’t be alarmed. Fortunately for the both of us, you are only in the infant stages of this research, am I correct?” Mycroft shut the folder and then smiled in a way that was far too nice and not at all pleasant. “Despite the offense at the idea that you wish to fight the vampire race with chemical warfare, I think your work is remarkable. And as such I wish to offer you a position working for me. R&D division. Hematology. Your own lab. You can continue your viral research, monitored of course. You will be paid. Protected. Funded.”

John was quiet for a long time and wondered if this was even an offer. He wasn’t too confident on the idea that he’d just be let out of here if he said no. “What’s the catch?”

Mycroft smiled and tilted his head. “You must work on a special case for me. Private. Confidential, you understand.” Sherlock bristled again and both John and Mycroft looked his way this time.

“Just bring him in if he’s going to watch.” John muttered and sank back down in his chair, taking a moment away from them to instead consider his current situation. Mycroft watched him, making sure he was fine with that idea before standing and moving to let Sherlock in. “Behave yourself.” He told Sherlock before he let him in. He was tense, but well behaved as he kept his distance and then sat himself on the opposite side of the table as John, next to Mycroft.

“What if I say no?”

“What if that wasn’t an option.” Mycroft was in no nonsense mode. “John. I am offering you a fantastic opportunity here. You will be safe,” He paused when John laughed dryly at that. “You will have your own lab. No more working out of a low class kitchenette where your results are all likely unusable given the inability to keep anything properly clean. You will have anything you wish at your disposal. All we require is your compliance and agreement to work on some side jobs for me.”

John knew he was either to accept the offer or be fed to the wolves and so with a nod of his head and a slump of his shoulders, he agreed.

“Splendid.” Mycroft beamed and pulled out his phone, punching some buttons and then putting it to his ear. “You two chat and I shall make your arrangements.” He pushed back his seat and stood, moving towards the back of the room, leaving John and Sherlock staring at one another. They didn’t say anything, not a word, until Mycroft returned, setting his phone down and opening his mouth to speak.

John interrupted. “So I’m studying him, then, I take it?”

Mycroft looked to John then over to Sherlock, wondering if Sherlock had said anything. Sherlock was looking to his sire with the same face and realizing at the same time as Mycroft that John deduced that on his own. “Please, elaborate.” Mycroft asked instead.

“Well, it’s obvious isn’t it? He’s sick. Or am I the only one who has noticed?” John looked confused now.

“As a matter of fact, you are.” Looking at him more closely now than before Mycroft smiled. “I think we’ll find your expertise more than satisfactory, Dr. Watson. Welcome aboard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post + chapter graphic: [Click here](http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/25197045215/the-scream-of-an-elemental-sherlock-had-found)


	4. The Capture

Settling in had not been a smooth process. In any other circumstance, Mycroft would have found himself more than aptly able to handle containing a creature but John was a tricky fellow. The more prime elementals such as water, wind, earth or fire, would have been leaps and bounds easier to handle than John. They had to be vigilante, watchful of him, mindful that no shadows come within touching distance. These precautions were taxing on both Mycroft’s sanity as well as his wallet, but they were entirely necessary, especially after John’s near-successful escape.   
  
It was so simple. Just the shadow under a too-large lab coat. He had almost gotten out but it was Sherlock who had unceremoniously torn the offending article of clothing off the poor lab assistants back and out tumbled John, unable to hold onto the shadows when the shadows no longer remained. He’d been locked in a UV room for that stunt. Three days. By the end of it he was much more compliant.  
  
This whole ordeal wasn’t only hard on the Holmes brothers. John was feeling the effects of the shadow deprivation more than anyone and it made him jumpy and ill. The wear and tear on his elemental spirit showed in the sallow coloring of his cheeks and under his eyes. He ate and slept regularly but you don’t deprive an elemental of their respective element without facing the consequences. And the fact that John was allowing his body to deteriorate by continuing to fight back (despite agreeing to Mycroft’s terms, however one sided they may have been) was doing nothing to lighten Sherlock’s mood either.   
  
Which lead them both to a very dreary Wednesday morning, deep in the labs where John was housed. He was no closer to beginning his work than he had been when they’d first brought him in but the near month of living there was visible in his posture. He was laying back on his bed, just a plain mattress on a boxed-in raised platform, his arm hanging down, fingers running back and forth along the cool ground. While he wasn’t working for Mycroft yet, he was still doing work in his head and so he might have looked idle but his mind was constantly active.   
  
He would still never even begin to rival the mental aptitude of the person walking through the door.  
  
Sherlock was a storm of coattails and scarves, snarling at the lab assistants in the room, making them scatter like moths. He waited till the door clicked shut before stalking up to John’s cell and slamming his hand on the glass. For all that he was free, he looked little better than John at the moment, His cheeks were a bit more hollow, his features sharp and more vampiric than normal. His sudden arrival had John sitting up abruptly but he showed little fear even in the face of his vicious attacker.  
  
“You have been nothing but a nuisance, John Watson. I don’t know why my brother bothers humoring your antics.” John knew that Mycroft was not allowing Sherlock to feed from him. And he also knew this was pissing the vampire off to no end. There was something more though, something that went beyond irritation and anger. Slipping from the bed John moved to stand in front of Sherlock, eye to eye and only separated by the transparent barrier.   
  
Sherlock was getting worse.  
  
“What is wrong with you?”  
  
The question had Sherlock snarling again, his hand pulling back to slam once more on the glass. It reverberated around the room and even cracked the barrier. Another expense Mycroft would have to pay. “I was told that was your job to figure out.” He hissed through clenched and elongated teeth, anger and contempt just seething off his form. Up till this point, he and John had little one-on-one contact, Mycroft or Anthea usually being the deflecting mediator in this whole ordeal. And so it wasn’t really till this point that John was well and truly interested. But he couldn’t let them know that. Not yet.  
  
“Now, since you seem stuck on your idea of refusing your offered job, and you are only getting worse as each day passes, Mycroft has ordered me to offer you a …” He was pausing on the word as if it were bitter on his tongue. “Compromise.” He curled his lip as he said it. “If you comply, now and for as long as you work for us, then we will allow you regular doses of your required element.”   
  
“You’d… you’d let me in a shadow?” John seemed confused.   
  
“Yes. Under the condition that you don’t to try and escape anymore. It would all be contained, all controlled but you would be allowed time regularly. And know, John Watson, that this is our last accommodating offer. If you refuse or act out and break your agreement now, I have been given permission to hunt you down and rip your throat out however I see fit.” The threat was real and Sherlock seemed just as happy to murder John as he did with having his cooperation. He knew he’d pushed his luck, he was just hoping his expertise would always outweigh his belligerent attitude. Clearly he’d been too arrogant.  
  
Regarding Sherlock with the watchful and reproachful stare of a prey long since captured, he sighed heavily and finally nodded. He’d get nowhere fast if he continued to act out and perhaps, later, if he helped the vampire in front of him, he could still be let free. This hope was small and dim but it remained and that was all he had. Nodding he stepped away from Sherlock and then went back to his bed. Sherlock wasted no other time with the elemental. He was gone before John could even notice, returning to his Sire’s office to let him know the news.  
  
Three weeks and multiple shadow-sessions later, John was finally fit enough to begin work in his lab. He’d been having regular discussions with both Mycroft and his team and had been caught up on all the research concerning him that was currently being done. His work with Sherlock was to be kept as hush-hush as possible, of course, but he hadn’t been well enough (and neither had Sherlock) to begin their own consultations. But enough time had passed for John to regain enough of his strength to meet with his Vampire client. Sherlock himself had been feeding regularly, Mycroft’s orders, on the hope that should he be full upon going into his first meeting with John he would be much less inclined to attack him. It had become known that while Sherlock enjoyed human blood, John’s was especially favored by him and nothing would stop him from getting himself more should he find himself peckish.  
  
So when Sherlock sat down at the table John was currently at, it was only minutes after finishing his second meal of the day. John only passed him a cursory though slightly nervous glance as he finished writing up his last few notes. With a decisive tap of his pen he sat back and looked to Sherlock, finally able to face both his patient and the man who had nearly slaughtered him. In Sherlock’s defense, he’d been in a craze, but John was hearing none of it. If the vampires in this lab could work while still being in full control of themselves, there was no reason Sherlock couldn’t either. But then again, John had long since gathered that while Sherlock’s intelligence well surpassed even some of the oldest vampires, his maturity was eons behind.   
  
“Alright. Mr. Holmes. I figured the best place to start would be at the symptoms of your illness. What is it that your body does that makes you think something is wrong?” It was an ill formed question and John felt like a dunce as he was speaking it but he couldn’t deny that he was both nervous and feeling awkward around Sherlock now that they actually had to get down to business. He was holding his pen, poised to write, but his other hand was twisting and torturing the sleeve of his own lab coat.   
  
Sherlock noticed all of this of course. For his part, he refrained from mocking him.  
  
“You can call me Sherlock.” He was a lot more even tempered than he had been the last time they’d met and that was a godsend for John. “And I am sick. I don’t need your opinion on that, Doctor. What I need is for you to find out what is wrong. The diagnosis won’t be straightforward. Believe me when I say you aren’t the first doctor we’ve brought it. So it would be appreciated if we could skip this whole introductory nonsense and get to the rest.”   
  
John sighed and set down his pen, looking aside and licking his lips. “Fine. Tell me what’s wrong then. Tell me what you think it is.”   
  
“That’s your job remem-“  
  
“I know what my bloody job is but if this entire damn ordeal isn’t clue enough that you tend to do a lot of work on your own, then I don’t know what is. I feel I am safe in assuming that your astronomical ego has prevented you from being cooperative with anyone else so I’m going to hedge a guess at the idea that while other doctors have been conducting their fruitless research, you have been doing your own as well. And if you had to hunt me down, nearly kill me and then force me to work for you, I’m assuming that you have either come up with a theory that you need an expert to prove or you’ve hit a dead end. And short of offending your pride and earning myself another one way trip to torn-out-esophagus-burg, then I’m going on the first. So, please, _Sherlock_ , don’t waste my time either and just tell me what you bloody well think it is.” He was out of breath by the time he was done, a flush having crept up his neck and behind his ears and momentarily he wondered if he’d survive the rest of the hour.  
  
Sherlock was dutifully stunned but instead of a snarl, he gave John a grin, shaking his head and nodding. It was nice to have someone be frank with him for once. People did it often, sure, but usually just to insult him. And then they almost always immediately fled. But John, plain and boring John, threw it all in his face and remained sitting in front of him. Shaken, yes, but still he remained and Sherlock could respect that. Not to mention that he’d already blown everyone else out of the water with his observations. That was something Sherlock always enjoyed. “Very well. My body does not… receive blood well. It seems to reject it. Which, as you can imagine, is problematic for someone of my species. He looked away. “I have tested blood types to see if it was a compatibility problem, to no avail. I’ve tested others receiving my blood and that has not been an issue. It is just my body, my system which refuses blood.”   
  
“You didn’t seem to refuse mine.” John commented idly as he scribbled some notes down in shorthand.   
  
“No it wouldn’t appear that way. It never does. And not all blood reacts badly. Sometimes it is fine. But not always and I have yet to find a pattern amongst the symptoms to lead me to a defining answer.”  
  
“Well… what idea do you have now?”  
  
That made Sherlock pause, his gaze averted and his posture apprehensive. He was holding back, as if he thought John might write off his research due to its obvious absurdity. And he probably should, rightfully so, given what Sherlock was about to tell him. “I have been… humoring the idea of hemophilia.” He said it then grew rigid, defending himself from the rebuke he was about to get from his doctor.   
  
John didn’t do this, though. He took his theory and weighed it, sitting back in his chair and giving himself some time to truly think about it. “But vampires can’t be hemophiliacs. It’s just... it just doesn’t make sense.”   
  
“I am aware that vampires have never _been_ hemophiliacs. But that does not prove that they _cannot_ be.” He retorted.  
  
“This is true. But it doesn’t make sense. Vampires survive on the blood of another. How can you be a vampire if you body cannot do that one primal thing?”  
  
“Humans were made for many things but countless complications have arisen through their long history to make them invalid.”  
  
“So are you suggesting that this is happening to vampires as well? That they are forming… complications like humans?” The idea was pretty revolutionary and not at all surprising that it needed to be kept quiet. If other vampires got wind of the fact that Sherlock was hypothesizing their race evolving like humans, then they were surely to be rightfully miffed. Long since considered superior and flawless compared to their archaic food sources, asserting that vampires were just as susceptible to human flaws was a terrible offense. Vampires were perfect. Once you were turned you were immortal, all powerful and immune to the pesky diseases that have long since plagued the human race. To suggest otherwise was asking for trouble.  
  
“I am suggesting that perhaps you should take some samples, run some tests, and come back with your own theory.” He said carefully, turning his attention back to John now, watching him just the same. John nodded and sighed, setting his pen down with finality and getting up to get some supplies. The process was slow, John working efficiently to collect as much blood as Sherlock would allow while also continuing to ask him about what happens to him when he gets sick. When he was done, Sherlock left, saying he needed to be elsewhere, then disappearing through the swinging double doors without any other word.   
  
John didn’t see him again for another week and a half.  
  
This became routine after awhile. John would take samples, run tests, ask questions and then Sherlock would leave. He couldn’t spend all his time focusing on Sherlock’s case but a large portion of his focus was there. The rest was on other R&D projects Mycroft had for him. Overall… it was rather nice. Not the ‘living with your captors and near-murderer’ bit. That still rubbed John the wrong way. But the facility itself was nice, his assistants were competent and helpful and overall he was getting a lot of work done. Vaguely he wondered if he was developing Stockholm syndrome but then again, isn’t it always said that one should never self-diagnose?   
  
With that thought in mind, John left it at that.  
  
It was a few months into John’s stay that things changed. John could only learn so much from the blood Sherlock was giving him and all the results he was getting were ones Sherlock had already produced months earlier. He was coming up on a dead-end faster than Sherlock had and he wondered if his failure to deduce what was wrong with the volatile Sherlock Holmes would ensure an immediate and gruesome death on his own part. If he stopped being useful, if he was no better than the doctors they’d already had, then what good was he? How would they dispose of a useless elemental who knew far too much? Permanently, John supposed.  
  
This fear had him requesting more meetings with Sherlock, more consultations, more tests. Sherlock could sense his urgency just the same and it certainly didn’t make him feel very confident in his doctor. But he was playing along for now because somewhere deep inside he was just as desperate as John. If even the est vampiric hematologist (along with HIS OWN research no less) couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him, what did that say about his future? How long did he have before his body refused all blood altogether? How long did he have before he couldn’t eat and withered away into nothing? He wasn’t ready for that conclusion to his story, he wasn’t ready to die permanently. So he played along, and hoped somewhere in those blood samples, the answer to the puzzle would surface.  
  
In the late evening of a cold December day, they’d learn that they’d been going about it all wrong. John had planned a late night session with Sherlock, new tests that Sherlock had asked to be around for, purely out of curiosity. But he had planned his dinner poorly and when he’d come into the lab he’d looked worse for the ware. John had looked up and went to smile when he saw (his not friend) Sherlock, but stopped at the look on the other’s face and the minute shake of his head. He was moving swiftly past John and immediately to the bathroom where he dropped to his knees and wretched. And wretched. And wretched some more. And when John went to inspect he found the toilet basin filled with dark blood. It was almost sickening and he felt a sudden pang of compassion for Sherlock that he hadn’t felt before. It was like seeing a child sick, not knowing what was wrong, not knowing how to help. It wasn’t as if Sherlock had done this to himself. And when Sherlock looked up to him with a look in his eye that was all desperation and plea, he crossed the line from curious doctor to concerned friend.   
  
Another heave brought Sherlock back down and John moved quickly to collect wet towels and a large glass of water to help him when he was done. He’d normally offer blood to a vamp that got sick but knowing that that was what was making him sick in the first place, he forwent the blood in favor of water. He moved and as Sherlock rested his head against the rim of the loo, John helped him out of his long coat and scarf, soaking the cloths in cool water then draping them over the back of his neck. He didn’t know what to say, opening his mouth to start many times but finding all his words sticking in his throat. And so he just sat with Sherlock, rubbing his back as another bout hit him, then running his fingers through his hair and changing his towels in between. When it seemed like Sherlock had finally gotten it out of his system He sat back and half slid-half turned till he was twisted up with his head in John’s lap. His knees were bent and caught between the vanity and the loo but he seemed happy enough to just have had that sickness pass.   
  
“I didn’t know it was this bad.” John said quietly as he lifted the cloth to clear up the blood from around Sherlock’s mouth and nose. He’d blown some arteries in his nose and his eyes were tinged pink, making John frown more. This wasn’t normal, this wasn’t normal at all. Sherlock wasn’t in the business of talking, though, not right now and so he just tipped his face and pressed it to John’s stomach, no doubt listening for the sound of his heart, a sure lullaby for any vampire. John let out a soft sigh and just held his head, allowing him the time to rest.   
  
It was Mycroft who found them first and he showed up as he always did, unannounced and without noise, surprising John out of his silent train of thoughts. He’d been sitting there, back to the tub, with Sherlock curled up against him, and truth be told, he was starting to feel it. He wouldn’t move Sherlock, no, but he’d have a kink in his back for days to come. Mycroft, despite his impenetrable visage of poise and conduct, looked frazzled. John was hedging a guess that he’d been looking for Sherlock and had been unable to find him. When he saw him he let out a barely noticeable sigh of relief and then looked disapprovingly at the mess around the toilet. “I’ll get someone to clean this up.” He said simply, pursing his lips worryingly, and looking back down to Sherlock. “How long ago?”  
  
“About an hour. Maybe more.” John replied, looking down to his watch and noting the time. “He’d told me about this before, how he reacts sometimes but I didn’t think it was this bad. I’ve never seen this before.” He admitted, licking his lips and working out some dried blood from the curls around Sherlock’s forehead.   
  
“It isn’t always. While this isn’t the worst I’ve seen, it certainly isn’t the best.” Mycroft admitted, looking aside as he was lost in reverie. “I need you to help him, John. I need you to figure out what is wrong with him.” And this wasn’t an order. And it wasn’t a deal. It was a request. A desperate one and one John couldn’t refuse. He nodded without hesitation and then looked back to Sherlock. He knew he wouldn’t be able to leave now, even if he was given an out.   
  
With some help from Mycroft they were able to get Sherlock into John’s bed, the only flat surface that wasn’t an exam table. For his part, Sherlock remained unconscious, though whether he was truly knocked out or just sleeping, John couldn’t tell. Vampires were hard to read like that. Mycroft left with a terse farewell and a promise that he’d have a team in here ASAP to clean up Sherlock’s mess. John waved him off and after making sure Sherlock was comfortable enough with some cool rags on his brow and neck, John went to inspect the mess himself. He needed to see it all first hand and since testing the blood straight from Sherlock was giving them nothing, he was opting to test something else.   
  
Collecting a sample of Sherlock’s sick, he wondered if he was just wasting his time. Presumably, anything in Sherlock’s system, regardless of being rejected, would have been contaminated or too deteriorated to be of any use to him. He’d looked at ingested blood from a vampire before. He knew what the chemicals in a vampires body did to ingested blood and it wasn’t terribly interesting. But John Watson was grabbing at straws now and this was the biggest straw of them all. He left the bathroom once he was done and then went to his lab table, paying no mind when a crew came in to clean up while he worked. He had no time to waste on what was sure to be a long night.  



End file.
